


summer snows, winter roses

by queendomcome



Series: stories they tell themselves (about how history happened) [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Women, Gen, Northern folklore, Northern history, Original Character-centric, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, The North Remembers (ASoIaF), and the north is better for it, file under: things that keep me up at night, in which Brandon the Builder has seven daughters, the north was shaped by women and magic and the old gods
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queendomcome/pseuds/queendomcome
Summary: The North remembers.Tha cuimhne aig an taobh a-tuath.And the Northmen do, truly, remember. They tell stories of The Builder’s daughters and of the sisters in white who fought along side the black brothers against the Night’s King. Of the Children and the Others. They toast to Torrhen, who laid down his sword to save his people, and of his brother Brandon, whose silver tongue saved them from further indignities. And, so long as it remembers, the North may falter but it will not fall.
Series: stories they tell themselves (about how history happened) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564801
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33





	summer snows, winter roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> North of the Neck, they speak of Brandon’s daughters. Seven wolf maids born to the longest night. Kind and fierce and lovely, they refused to be cowed by an army of death. Winter’s princesses who bound protections in blood and stone and blessed the North with the promise of dawn.

_Similar to Nymeria’s arrival in Dorne, the_ Long Night _was an event that marked an elevation of status for Northern women. When King Brandon I led the march from Moat Cailin, nearly every able Northman under his command, he had no way of knowing that it would set into motion a quiet revolution. For, when the king and his army returned victorious, they would find the women they left behind not only running the keep more efficiently than the most fastidious steward but also formed into a well regimented garrison. More importantly, they discovered that the women of the North would no longer silently bear their anger and discontent._

 _At the forefront of this change were Brandon’s daughters. Seven in total, the first princesses of House Stark had been born and brought up during the_ Long Night _. The eldest, Branda, had been born during the earliest months of winter. Her mother, Arsa, would give birth to sisters Alarra and Jocelyn before falling victim to what was likely pre-eclampsia during her fourth pregnancy. Second wife, Sarra, would bring three healthy daughters into the world: Lynara, Berena, and Mariah. When she succumbed to an infection after a stillbirth, the king would marry again in hopes of securing the Stark dynasty with a son. His third wife, Arrana, would give him two more children: daughter Eddara and Brandon’s only living son, also Brandon._

_Numbered among the generation of children born during the_ Long Night _, it should be no surprise that Brandon’s daughters did not receive a typical upbringing. Branda, twenty years older than her only brother, had long been considered her father’s heir. To call her education eclectic would be an understatement. While her sisters were equally educated, Branda would ensure they were well trained in anything they showed an interest in or affinity for. Whether foresight or happy coincidence, this would serve the sisters well when their father went to war against the Others._

_Although there has been much debate over the true nature of the Others, whether foreign invaders or beings truly magical in nature, it remains true that they nearly succeeded in not only destroying the North but the rest of Westeros. When King Brandon left Moat Cailin, his young son nominally in charge, he hoped the enemy would be drawn north by his army. However, the king fully expected that the keep would suffer great loses. He had gone as far to counsel his daughters to flee the keep and seek out sanctuary within the swamps of the Neck if they were attacked._

_However, days after their father’s departure, the princesses of Winter would ignore this advice and move to secure the last northern stronghold. According to legend, they were inspired by true dreams gifted by the old gods. During the day, the sisters would teach, train, and organize those who had remained at the keep. At night, they would share the details of their dreams and combine their knowledge of the North. In the end, they would create a ritual whose purpose was to tap into the wild magic of the North. When combined with blood and the runes of the First Men, the resultant protections were supposed to serve as warding against the Others and the dead._

_In this modern age, it is difficult to imagine a world full of magic. But on a continent that once hosted skin changers and dragons, it is not too difficult to believe that these daughters of the North might have accessed something beyond our understanding. That they might have stood against the reanimated dead. What we do know, however, is that Moat Cailin never fell despite evidence of a long lasting siege. That carved into the very foundations of the Wall, as well as every keep and Northern settlement, are runes that have been smeared with the blood of countless generations of Northern women. And that, when Princess Branda created a soroal order to stand alongside, but separate from, the Night’s Watch, not even the King of Winter dared to undermine her._

_The Dawn’s Front, as the order came to be called, would supervise the building of the Wall, Winterfell, and many of the great keeps of the North. For nearly nine thousand years, until the true fall of magic in the known world, the sisters would travel the North strengthening the protections they had put into place. They would extend their knowledge to the ladies of the noble Houses of the North, hoping to better ensure the safety of the lands north of the Neck. Their sons would man the Wall and farm the Gift; their daughters would become sisters, healers, and midwives. Never pledging chastity like their brothers of the Watch, they would help to keep magic alive in the North long after death of the last dragon._

_Inspired by his sisters and the other brave women during the_ Long Night _and the_ Battle for Dawn _, King Brandon II would issue the first edicts concerning the status of Northwomen. However, it would not be until the hundred year reign of King Edrick I that a system of absolute primogeniture was established throughout the North. King Edrick would enshrine into law the rights of female heirs. This would ensure that their husbands had no legal authority over their lands or their people and that they would be allowed to rule in their own right, not simply as regents for their sons._

 _Although the position of Northwomen would cause tensions with the South after the coming of the Andals and their new gods, the North continually refused to make concessions. Throughout the eight thousand year reign of the Kings of Winter and the rule of the Starks as Lords Paramount, northerners would defend both the existence of the Dawn’s Front and the freedoms Northwomen possessed. For it is true that_ The North Remembers _and it would never again leave half its population defenseless and disenfranchised but for the blessings of the Old Gods ever again._

_excerpt from:_

Manderly, Elenora. _Like Summer Snows and Winter Roses: The Women who Shaped the North._ King’s Landing: Woven Thread, 2012. Print.

—-

[Branda]

Near a sennight ago, their father left. She had known he would the moment Siggorn had appeared at the outer gates, a sharp piece of dragonglass in one fist and a team of laden mules trailing behind him. The dead had pushed them south, First Men and Children alike. A steady creeping push that lost the North more land, stores, and people every year. After thirty years of night and the famine, sickness, and war that had come with it, they had thought to make their last stand at Moat Cailin.

And then Siggorn had come back. Father had hoped he would bring the Children, with their weirwood bows and deadly, clever fingers. But the Children would not leave the swamps of the Neck, would not risk their shrunken numbers against the Others and their army of the dead. Instead, they sent Siggorn back with fragile-sharp black glass that was the bane of their enemy and the hope of victory if only they marched north.

 _The world is dying,_ Father had said, _we are dying. If this is our chance, my dear heart, then we must take it._ I _must take it._ If he had set his sword into the forge, only to plunge it into her heart, her father could not have hurt her more. For Branda knew he meant to empty the keep of any boy old enough and hale enough to wield a sword of dragonglass or let a black tipped arrow fly true. _A feast for the dead,_ Branda thought bitterly, _”and a distraction for their masters._

She had watched, stony eyed, as the keep had emptied of men and supplies and beasts, knowing whatever promises had been made were worthless. They all knew, to the smallest child, that they were being left to die. Branda knew and she refused. She was a Stark and a daughter of the North; she would live or she would die fighting.

[Alarra]

The stores were abysmal; the only thing they had in abundance were casks of wine. Alarra had spent countless days sleeping in the storerooms, napping in fits and starts as she took stock of what had been left to them. Her father had ordered his men to leave one fifth of Moat Cailin’s stores, the sum of what was left to the North after nearly thirty years of a sunless winter. The army had left the wine and taken more of their share of dried meat and ale. The lack of care the men had shown in what stores were left hurt more than their actual leaving.

These men who she had viewed as uncles and these boys she had stolen kisses from viewed her as disposable. Viewed the women of the North as disposable. Perhaps they meant to take wives from further south. To replenish the North with women who perhaps had not suffered so keenly, whose courses still came. Her own father, their king, had taken three women to wife in his quest for a _true_ heir. Yet, he had left sweet Bran behind; their sacrifice meaning nothing. It was a bitter truth to swallow, that even the noblest of men viewed them no better than sows to be bred and then butchered once gelded.

She was not Branda, who found strength in her rage. Or Berena who funneled her anger and her tears through mending hurts and making potions. And, while she might not yet curse the gods, neither was she queer Mariah who found peace in listening to the wind through the leaves. She counted and she planned, both for tomorrow and what might happen after.

[Jocelyn]

“Well, we’re well and truly fucked, aren’t we?”

Jos had not waited for the men to disappear over the horizon to slip her skin. It was tempting to stay in the sleek little hawk she kept close. It was likely one of the few animals this far north that did not know hunger. It liked the marsh, with its fat silver fish and newly hatched lizard-lions. She found it jarring, after all these years, to come back to an empty belly with the taste of muddy flesh still in her mouth. Despite this, she continued to play scout; keen eyes and fast wings more help than a dozen crannogmen.

She returned, mouth dry and hands shaking. Berena had wrenched herself from the sickbeds to wait by her side and lead her to the Great Hall. Jos immediately regretted the walk, as dinner turned out to be a sad affair. The men, _their men_ , had left the milk cows behind in what had likely been a fit of practicality, rather than compassion. So they hunched over bowls of warmed milk thickened with marshweed and Jos counted down the minutes until she could retreat to Branda’s solar and give her scouting report.

“I’d toast to us, to our well and truly fuckedness, but I’ve been informed on at least three different occasions that, despite the number of casks, we are rationing even the wine.”

Fixing her expression into one of amused indifference, Jos swung her boots up onto the solid wooden table she and her sisters had gathered around and began chewing noisily on a strip of boiled leather. Someone, probably Lyn, snorted in amusement while Neddie pulled a face at her antics. Alla, serious and somber, ignored all of it; refreshing her quill and fixing her sister with a flinty eyed stare.

”We’ve two months, three, mayhap four if we’re lucky. Which isn’t like to happen.” Winter thus far had been one hardship after the other; a lifetime of disappointments. Jos would bet her eye teeth that this would only be more of the same. “The Others aren’t slowed by blizzards or snow drifts, not like our men will be. They needn’t send a quarter of their forces to overwhelm us.”

They might as well drink their fill and set themselves on fire, for all the good their planning would do them. But she would not fly, would not leave her sisters behind. _The lone wolf dies but the pack survives._ They would get through this together or not at all.

[Lynara]

Lynara took a deep breath and waited as her sisters tried and failed to talk over one another. It had been clear from the way she had smirked and swaggered that Jocelyn had nothing good to report. They had all expected it; even little Neddie, who still believed the moon rose and set on their father. It still hurt to hear that they had been abandoned to their fate with only the barest of plans and scraps of dragonglass.

”We should fight,” she spoke into the silence that followed. “We have time to prepare. We should fight.”

It was not necessarily a _good_ plan, it was simply the only one they had left to them. How many women would survive the swamps? How many children? Perhaps the dead might distract themselves with the ill and injured they would be forced to leave behind. Even still, everyone knew the Neck was treacherous and they had no Children or crannogmen to lead them. To Lynara, it was the only plan that made sense.

”Fight?” Berena’s face was a study of pure bewilderment. “Lyn, be reasonable. The shortages have hit our women the hardest. First with priority given to the men and then their own rationing for their children’s sakes. Gods, you expect them to face off against that which can strike down a hardened warrior?”

She wanted to scream. To reach across the table and slam Berena’s sweet, staid face into the solid wood. Lynara _knew_ the challenges before them; she was simply willing to face them head on. “What would you have us do? Force them to march through the swamps? Sit like ducks and wait to die, then rise again to attack their brothers and husbands? Let us slit our throats now and be done with it, Berena!”

”Enough.” Branda’s voice was soft and low but it carried through the room. She looked like a queen, implacable and still. Her gaze could have frozen the Others in their tracks. “ _Enough_.” The moment passed and their eldest sister was a weary mother, an old crone. Lynara could feel her face grow hot as shame punched through her. She was supposed to be the calm one; steady and cool as the Last River. It was not her nature to give her eldest sister one more thing to worry on.

”I have a plan,” she said at the end of a long, slow breath out, “and together, we can make it work.”

[Berena]

By the time the bell tower had chimed six times, Berena had already made her way around the infirmary. There were always bandages to change, frostbite to treat, and ailments to address. Her days were filled with the smell of blood and sick; if she paused, even for a moment, she might lay down and never get up again.

She had been so, so proud when she had been chosen to replace the old healer when she was only six and teen. It had been such a surprise, even with all the whispers that her talent with the healing arts was gods blessed. And then with every lost babe, every wave of sickness, and every warrior she failed to save that pride and passion slowly gave way to grief. Now, just days after that gods awful meeting with her sisters in Branda’s solar, she was responsible for spreading that grief around.

In the aftermath that followed, Bran had been all to eager to give up control of the keep and its people to his eldest sister. It was only Father’s pride and Northern tradition that had seen it passed to their little brother in the first place. Together with Jos and Lyn, Branda had begun training every woman flowered to stand as a solider against the coming army of the dead. ‘Larra and Neddie seemed to be everywhere in keep, their own domestic armies trailing behind. When the women were not training, they were helping to dredge the nearby waters for anything which could be eaten and shoring up the keep’s defenses. Which, ostensibly, meant that she had Mariah to help her and the children make bandages and mix potions. The reality being, of course, that little Bran was more help than Mariah.

Lyn’s plan was simple enough. While they could not make men out of their women, they could certainly make warriors of them. All of Father’s daughters had learned to fight mean and dirty, aware that a Stark princess was a fine prize indeed. Branda, who had been raised to take command of a country of rough Northmen, could shape them into a cohesive unit while their wildest sisters made them fierce and fast. Berena helped ease their aches and put flesh on them; keeping herself so busy, she had hardly any time to think.

Yet, night after night, no matter how weary, Berena dreamed. A wall of ice and stone. A great grey keep built round a weeping heart tree. Voices, _her voice_ , raised in a chant that shook her to her bones. Quick, sharp pain. Runes etched in stone. Blood. _Her blood_. It was the same for her sisters. _True seeing,_ Mariah had whispered that first morning, _green dreams._ Berena simply finished the contents of the bowl put before her. There was work to do and she meant to do it, green dreams be damned.

[Mariah]

The first dream had come the night before her father began his march north. Mariah had stood facing the outer gates of the keep, a bowl held in one hand. She had watched as she dipped a finger into ash mixed with blood and fixed a rune to Father’s forehead. Each man that passed, every green boy, had been affixed with the same. When Mariah had woken, that same bone white bowl perched next to her bed, she had nearly burnt herself in her hurried efforts to scoop ashes from the hearth.

It was not as if she was daft or deaf. She knew what was said about her. Queer Mariah. Sweet, simple Mariah. Her sisters, love her as they did, often shot her looks of worry, looks of pity. It was not if she did not hear, did not see; she just chose to put it from her mind. She had far more important matters to attend, for even though the men had passed through the gates marked with blood and ash, the dreams still came.

She knew her sisters were sharing her dreams, could see it in the deep bruises under their eyes. And yet, Mariah held her tongue. They would come to her, she hoped, when they were ready. She prayed that they would not wait overly long, that sense would prevail over stubborn pride.

So, every morning, Mariah bit her tongue and finished her meal. She ignored Branda’s requests to train with the women, Berena’s entreaties to attend to the infirmary, and Allara’s demands that she do something, _anything_ , to help prepare the keep. Instead, she retrieved the abandoned hammer and chisel she had found in the smithy and went to work.

The stone that made up the keep’s outer walls was easier to chip into than it should have been. So long as she did not think overly hard on it, Mariah found that the smooth grey rock seemed to melt beneath her ministrations. All day she worked, from first bells to last, pausing for little else but to address her body’s needs. Guided by godly intervention as she was, it simply was not work she could get done alone. Not if she wished to finish before the dead were at their door.

Neddie was first, cloaked in a wolf’s pelt. They did not speak of the women they saw, clad all in white, nor of a castle on a lake, a crown of gold. Her littlest sister, baby for nearly ten name days, had a heavy burden to bear and Mariah knew that she did not wish to speak of it. So, instead, she sang songs of the North. Of brave men and women who had lived long ago and of those who would not be born until long after she was gone. For the first time in a very long time, Mariah’s heart felt like it might burst from hope.

Jocelyn came next, her mouth twisted into smirk. Allara and ‘Ren followed, mere hours apart. That Branda was the next to join came as a surprise; that she had sent Bran to the training yard to supervise did not. Finally, _finally_ , Lyn appeared and though she did not look happy about it, she began scoring lines into the rock all the same. They circled the walls, repeating the same pattern of runes over and over.

 _The protections will hold,_ Mariah thought, _and that is when the real work begins._

[Eddara]

”I thought it might hurt more,” Eddara said once they’d dipped their hands in near scalding wine and allowed Berena’s tiny healers to attend to their bleeding palms. She caught Jocelyn rolling her eyes out of the corner of her eye, acting more like a girl of seven rather than a woman of seven and twenty. Eddara opened her mouth, meaning to scold her, and found herself retching onto the floor instead.

They all came running then, worry writ clear across their faces, never mind that they were all still buzzing from harnessing wild magic or that half their bandages were still untied. Eddara wanted to scowl, wanted to sigh loudly, but concentrated instead on not sicking up a second time.

“Well,” Mariah said, her normally sweet voice smug, “ _that_ certainly did not take long.” A part of her, that small mean part of her that was as wild as Jocelyn or deadly as Lynara, wanted to lean over and vomit all over Mariah’s worn leather boots. Instead, she sank down onto the nearest bench and concentrated on breathing through her nose. “Although, I suppose, it is not as if we can control such a blessing.”

“Gods,” Eddara could not help but whine, “Branda make her stop.”

Instead of Branda, it was Alarra who spoke next, her soft voice rising in pitch until they were all wincing. “Does no one find it odd that the Others are _quite literally_ pounding at the gates and yet, here we stand, waiting for Neddie to get sick again?”

Berena had retrieved a cool, wet rag from somewhere while Eddara was focused on a spot on the floor and she leaned into it gratefully. “I suppose that either the magic will hold or not. In the meantime, I would like to know what has Neddie retching all over the flagstones.” Eddara snorted, then regretted it instantly when her stomach began to roil again.

”I am sure it is the babe, making his presence known.” Jocelyn stepped back, as if slapped, as Lynara reached for the small steel blade tucked into her boot.

”A babe, Neddie? Now? Knowing the dead were on the march? A keep full of children and cripples and you choose now? Point out the idiot and I’ll gut him, let Berena stitch him up, and gut him again.”

”Gods, Lyn, tis a babe, not the pox.”

”Gods B’ren,” Jocelyn mocked, “tis a _babe_. Gods know if we’ll survive the night, much less a seige, and here Neddie is, fighting mother’s stomach.”

It devolved from there, as it had all those months before in Branda’s solar. Eddara took the rag from Berena’s loose grip and took Branda’s extended arm as an invitation to snuggle in close. It was almost funny, watching her sisters bicker as their people huddled in their rooms, praying that the gods’ blessing anchored into the keep by their princesses would hold. It was almost funny, so, of course, Eddara burst into noisy tears.

It did not take long for the fighting to stop then, her sisters turning to her, looking equal parts shocked and horrified.

”Gods,” Lynara groaned, “your mother was such a miserable pregnant woman. Crying and retching and hungry, in equal measure. _Of course_ you would be the same, nevermind the miserable father.”

”It was a wolf,” Eddard offered once she had gotten her tears under control. “It was a wolf and when his nose touched my hand, _I_ was a wolf. We ran together and loved each other. When I woke, he was a man and I a woman. He wrapped me in this pelt and kissed me on the forehead, then he was gone.” It sounded so stupid, once she had said it aloud. Wargs slipped skins, not shifted into them, and and Eddara had never shown that talent anyway. But she could remember being a wolf; the snow under her paws, the smells in the air. And she had the cloak, made from the pelt of a single grey direwolf, that she had not had until her wolf had shed his skin and wrapped her in it.

”Be that as it may,” Branda said as she kissed the top of Eddara’s head, “we have more pressing matters to attend.”

”More pressing than the dead at our doors?” Alarra spluttered.

”More pressing than Neddie’s little wolf babe?” Berena pressed.

”Quite,” Mariah said, looking more smug than Jocelyn had ever dared, while her sisters looked on in disbelief. “And we have much to plan before Father returns and remembers to marry us off in the wake of rebuilding.”

”Our sister has the right of it again, so it seems.” Branda’s expression turned warm and soft as she held out a hand for Mariah to take. “You have seen Father and his men return in your dreams, same as I. And if we do nothing, sisters, if we stand idly by, the North will forget little by little until we find the dead knocking at our doors once again.”

 _Not me,_ Eddara reminded herself, though it made her heart ache to do so. _I’ve a different path to take.”_ Still, she could not help but listen, enraptured, as Branda leaned forward toward their sisters, a small smile playing on her lips.

”What do you think of an order? Of women? Of _sisters_?”

”The Dawn’s Front,” Mariah whispered.

”Aye, the sisters of the Front. The North’s first, and last, defense. They may have left us all to die but we, the gods blessed, will ensure that the North lives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the last two weeks, this has become an exercise in world building that spun wildly out of control. What was meant to be a way to work out the issues I was having with Lyarra’s POV chapter ended up taking on a life of its own. But once I’d worked out the kinks and settled on a style, the words just started pouring out. 
> 
> This is, essentially, my way of addressing my issues with the way the North is presented in canon. We hear, constantly, how different the North and the Northerners are from the rest of Westeros but it’s not exactly shown. _Winter is Coming_ but despite a decade of summer, the North is not better prepared. _The North Remembers_ but an old wet nurse is the only one keeping that memory alive. We are given a culture defined by what it lacks compared to the southron kingdoms, rather than what changes those differences might encourage.
> 
> Hopefully now that I’ve got the beginnings of the Dawn’s Front out of my system, I can turn back to finishing _mothers_. I mostly have it plotted out in my head, so it’s just a matter of putting pen to paper. Here’s to hoping.


End file.
